


Stay

by Dansnotavampire



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Also i love him, Its not mentioned but hes always trans, Kepler is mean, Kissing as a Distraction, M/M, Pining, Sad jacobi is sad, Trans Daniel Jacobi, Unrequited Love, also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/pseuds/Dansnotavampire
Summary: "I'm not going to stay," he says, just so you know that this doesn't mean anything.





	Stay

He's there in the night, in featherlight kisses trailed down your neck, in the gentle scratch of blunt fingers down your back, in the dark bruises bitten into your already aching thighs.

You fall back on the bed, next to him, his warmth. "I'm not going to stay," he says, just so you know that this doesn't mean anything. Then he kisses you, all fire and whiskey and cigarette smoke, and you kiss him back, all warmth and care and misplaced fucking love.

You fall asleep together. You wake up the next morning to a still-warm - but empty - bed. "Warren?" you call out, just on the off-chance he's still there.

"Bathroom," he replies, and... oh. That's nice. You didn't expect him to still be there, not when he has his own, far nicer, room to return to. He comes back, freshly shaven, and tells you to get ready. You have a job to do.

Suit on, pistol ready, Warren Kepler by your side. You feel unstoppable, untouchable. Maxwell's got your back, guiding you through the twisted corridors of whatever facility you've broken into via alcohol and celebration. Someone's going to come round the corner in three... two.. one. Warren backs you against the wall, his lips hot and fierce against yours. The man walks past, apparently not concerned by two random partygoers making out in his incredibly clandestine halls. Kepler pulls away, looking pristine as ever where you are a debauched, flushed mess, with kiss-bitten lips and mussed hair. He looks into your eyes as close to tenderly as he can manage, and you almost expect him to say something like "I love when you look like this."

Instead, all he says is "Public affection makes people uncomfortable," before he pulls you away, still in a daze.

"Really, sir?" Maxwell's voice crackles through your comms. "You realise that I see everything you're doing, right?"

"You can always shut your eyes, Alana dearest," you reply, because you'd give anything for Warren Kepler to kiss you like that again.

"Thank you, Jacobi," Kepler says. "Now, back to the mission, please."

"Aye, Sir," the two of you say, in perfect unison, and then you carry on, your brief moments of weakness more or less forgotten.

Three perfectly planned and executed detonations and an immensely long car drive later, you're back in the hotel, the mission complete.

"Tomorrow, you have the day to yourselves - Cutter's given us an extra night at the hotel, use it well, or not at all. I don't care. Be here, packed, at seven am on Thursday, comprendrez-vous?"

You nod. Maxwell heads off to her room, undoubtedly going to spend her spare twenty-four hours coding away at something. Kepler goes back to his own suite, probably to call Cutter and give him the mission report.

You? You go to your room, change into something clingy and black, swipe some lipstick on, and head out to a club. Or a bar. Or any other institute that serves alcohol. You're not even particularly distressed, or upset, or angry. You just want a fucking drink.

And a fucking drink is what you get. Or maybe two. Or three, or four, or five, or so many that you're too drunk to even count anymore. You're in a club, at least half an hour's drive from your hotel, and there's a tall, broad man up against your back, his hands on his hips feeling enough like Kepler's that you can ignore how his blue, blue eyes are no match for Kepler's own sunlit brown. It's definitely past midnight. Kepler will be asleep, in a bed with silken sheets, his only thoughts on going home the next day, while you're dancing in a club with a man who is almost good enough to be him, yet could never even come close.

Then the hands at your waist flutter nervously before they disappear, only to come back slightly warmer, slightly tighter, a moment later. A warm, honey-and-silk voice murmurs into your ear. "Come back to the hotel, Jacobi. I'm not letting you get hurt just because your first compulsion when given free reign is to get drunk and get off with a stranger."

It takes your mind a moment to identify the voice through your drunken haze, but a chill still trickles down your spine when you recognise it as Kepler. You stiffen, and stop dancing. "Okay, sir," you mumble.

"Good," he says. "There's a cab waiting for us outside."

He walks you to the cab, and then into the hotel, up into your room. Into your bed. You expect him to kiss you, to touch you, but he doesn't. You ask him why not, and he just tells you that he won't chase someone if they're in a situation where they can't say no. He goes to wash his face while you change into your pyjamas, and then comes back and slips into bed with you.

He's there that night, not in kisses or bites, but just in a comforting arm slung around your waist, in a warm body at your back.

He's not there in the morning, and the sheets are cold.

You're not surprised. He told you he wouldn't stay. 


End file.
